


This Too Will Pass

by Malcontent_Ash



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse, DCU Animated
Genre: Bruce Has Issues, Dark, Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mindfuck, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malcontent_Ash/pseuds/Malcontent_Ash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It took him a while to understand what he was seeing.  Blackness ate around the edges of his vision as he took in the broken glass of water on the floor, the leg which was twisted a little too far to be comfortable.  Water.  A body.  Pearls…  No.  Not pearls.  Not this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is what I do instead of worrying about all the things I should be doing.

            Underneath a large mansion on the skirts of Gotham City, Bruce Wayne returned from another long night of fighting crime and injustice.  His muscles burned with exhaustion and he would need to ice his shoulder overnight if he wanted to use it tomorrow.  The exceedingly powerful engine of the Batmobile purred to a stop and panels slid out of place to allow Bruce to exit.  It was early morning and he anticipated Alfred to be at his elbow to take his cape and hand him a cold press, but the elder gentleman was nowhere to be found.  The familiar anxiety twisted dully in his stomach.

            “Alfred?”  Bruce called out on the intercom system he had wired into the house.  He had explained to Alfred the security applications, but it was clear that Alfred knew their real intent.  It was obvious that Alfred was growing older, and it pained him to travel up and down stairs, especially between the main house and the cave.  With the intercoms in place, Alfred could check in on Bruce like he inevitably would without the wear and tear on his tired joints.  For the most part, Alfred refused to use the system, but more and more frequently he would ask if Bruce was still alive and when he intended to eat without making the long trek to the cave. 

            “Alfred?”  His stomach twist a little tighter at the silence on the line.  In an effort the quell the mounting discomfort in his gut, Bruce jogged upstairs in search of his guardian.  His legs wobbled beneath him as he pressed further into the mansion, checking the spots where he would expect Alfred to be.  The kitchen was empty, save for two plates sitting out, boldly contradicting the perfect order that Alfred had always imposed on the household.  Bruce tore through the house more quickly, slamming doors and treading moisture from his boots on to the oriental carpets.  His knuckles rapped loudly on the heavy wooden door to Alfred’s personal quarters.  With his heart pounding in his ears he threw the door open. 

            It took him a while to understand what he was seeing.  Blackness ate around the edges of his vision as he took in the broken glass of water on the floor, the leg which was twisted a little too far to be comfortable.  _Water.  A body.  Pearls…  No.  Not pearls.  Not this time._ He kneeled beside him, straightening the leg to bide some time before he pressed a wrist, searching for a pulse.  It was steady.  Stable.  His breathing was a little raspy, but constant, and there was no obvious sign of damage.  The calloused hands which had an hour ago broken a man’s grip on a gun, pinned him, cuffed him, now shook and fumbled for a phone.  Two rings.  Two rings too long.

            “Leslie.  Leslie, please.  I need help.”  He could hear papers rustling around on the other line.

            “Bruce?  What’s the matter?  Where are you?”  A couple miles away, Leslie Thompson grabbed her dark, wool jacket off the hook and slipped it around her shoulders. 

            “It’s—not me,” he choked, feeling his throat strangle his voice away.  “Please, Leslie.  It’s Alfred.”  An uncontrollable shake wracked his body and his breath was harsh and shallow into the phone. 

            “I’m on my way, Bruce.  You know how to move him.  Get him downstairs into the medical bay.  I’ll be there in five minutes.”  Bruce nodded an affirmation which couldn’t carry over the phone before the line went dead.  He lifted the slight frame into his arms, heart aching at the limpness, the thin limbs, and the fragile bones.  Powerful arms pulled him close, gently, as he carried something as fragile as a baby bird and precious as life itself.  Alfred was in his arms, on the medical table, Leslie shooed him away.  Everything spun around him as he wrestled his cape off of his shoulders.  He thought he was ready for this.  He wasn’t prepared for this.  Nothing could have prepared him for this.  He was numb and glassy-eyed by the time Leslie joined him in the living room.  The couch dipped beside him as slender hips rested on the cushion. 

            “He’s had a stroke.  His condition is… stable.”  The pain in the blue eyes which studied her was palpable.

            “Is he going to be okay?”  Firm lips settled into a grimace as he awaited the news.  _Body Language._ Her eyes slipped sideways, away from him. 

            “It’s hard to say.  Bruce… he’s in a coma,” a gentle hand settled on his shoulder, hoping to ease the blow.  _A coma._ His mind repeated, unhelpfully.  _A coma._ Symptoms and signs of a stroke raced through his head.  The odds of recovery.  Possible long term effects.  “The odds are against him, but he’s still fighting.”

            “Of course,” his voice was warm with confidence he couldn’t actually muster.  “Is there anything we can do?” 

            “Just keep him comfortable.  Only time will tell,” she nodded, heading downstairs to get her coat.  Just like Bruce, she was guarded, a little too cold, too aloof.  She’d given him many stitches, supplies, and helped set a couple of his broken bones.  She could patch up the holes and keep everything where it should be, but no one could fix the scars Bruce wore on the inside.  She wouldn’t be so arrogant as to try.  Bruce was calling her a cab by the time she was back upstairs, heading towards the door. 

            They’d done everything they could, and only time would tell. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously. I'm a terrible person.

            Three months had passed without fanfare, time ticking by as Bruce achingly begrudged every minute.  What little sleep he got was in the cave, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually bothered to eat.  Batman continued to prowl Gotham, a little jerkier and more sporadic, but if Gotham’s underworld noticed they remained blissfully silent about the matter.  More silent than usual even, now that Batman was breaking bones for more minor offenses than ever.  For the first time in his life, Bruce actually dipped into the wine cellar, tasting this wine and that before bringing a couple bottles back to the cave. 

            The taste was a little different than he’d imagined, but the burning down his throat into his uneasy stomach was much of what he’d expected.  With a bottle of Pinot Grigio he could settle into a fitful sleep. 

He could feel himself deconstructing, bit by bit.  He used to have a structured plan for every day.  Now he was lucky when he could convince himself to bathe, let alone shave.  With each passing day, Alfred’s odds of awakening and avoiding permanent brain damage grew exponentially worse and Bruce fell a little deeper.  Alfred was thinner.  It just wasn’t possible to keep him healthy on fluids alone. 

Today the Justice League contacted him for help and he shut the monitor off. 


	3. Chapter 3

            “Bruce?” the voice was warm and deep and for a moment he pictured his father.  “Bruce?”  It was too young, too confident and clear to be his father.  He heard a groan as he shifted on the cot he’d brought down to the cave.  He waded waist-deep through the mess of his mind.  A light was on and strong hands were shaking him. 

            “God, Bruce…  What have you done to yourself?”  It’d been a month since he last patrolled.  He’d faithfully changed the IV bags, the sheets, and kept Alfred warm and clean, but everything else seemed to have fallen by the wayside.  He felt smaller, heavier and tired.  Bloodshot eyes fluttered open.  He glanced around the room, taking in the mess of bottles and medical supplies. 

            “Why are you here?” he croaked, voice harsh and dry.  Strong hands gripped him, pulling him closer, and he relaxed into the warmth and comfort.  _Clark…_ he realized as the cogs started turning again.  _Clark…_ “He’s going to die, Clark.” 

            “Why didn’t you take him to a hospital?”  Clark inquired delicately, never relaxing his hold on the smaller man.  The smell of Bruce and the room made him gag slightly. 

            “Nothing more they could do…  He’s not going to make it.”  Bruce choked back a sob as a soothing hand rubbed his shoulders.  He wept dryly, coughing with dehydration.  His shoulders shook with shuddering breaths.  When he’d finally tired himself out, Clark aided him to his feet. 

            “Come on Bruce.  Let’s get you out of here,” he coaxed, eyes trained on nothing but Bruce’s fragile hand grasping his own and the way out.  The heart rate monitor whined steadily, and the constant tinny sound made his stomach turn.  He carried Bruce out to the car he’d brought, settling him in the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt.  “I need to make a phone call.  Stay put.”  He closed the door, walking back into the mansion and grabbing a set of house keys from where Bruce left them while dialing. 

            “How is he, Clark?  Is everything okay?”  An unusual amount of concern leaked into the Thanagarian warrior’s voice. 

            “Alfred’s dead, Shayera.  I don’t know how long Bruce has been down there with him, but he’s in a state of shock.  I’ll leave a set of keys, just…  Send someone by to set his affairs in order.”  He pocketed the phone, walking back to the car.  He could feel his veins fill with lead as he watched Brue stare sightlessly ahead.  Bruce sat unnaturally still, tears running down his cheeks as Clark climbed into the car. 

            “Bruce?  Can you hear me?”  Bruce hummed, still staring straight ahead.  “I want to take you back to Kansas with me.  Would that be okay?”  Bruce hummed again. 

            “Okay,” he whispered, blinking for the first time since Clark guided him into the car. 


	4. Chapter 4

            Bruce was agreeable enough as Clark booked them a flight and he even accepted a soft pretzel and a coffee from Clark as they waited in the airport.  A couple people stopped to stare as Bruce spaced out, gnawing on the warm dough, but Clark was pretty sure that no one would recognize Bruce unshaven and haggard as he was.  Clark tried asking him questions at first about what had happened, but everything he said was completely ignored.  The only time Bruce spoke during the entire trip was on the plane. 

            “Someone’s taking care of Alfred, right?”  Suddenly the plane felt too slow.  He should have flown them.  Bruce could have handled the strain.  Anything but this…  Tired blue eyes studied him carefully as his broken mind tried to piece everything together. 

            “Uh… Yeah, Bruce.  Everything will be okay,” Clark deflected, unable to completely lie to Bruce.  It broke his heart as Bruce sighed beside him, laying back and nodding quickly off to sleep. 

            They arrived at his parent’s house in Kansas a little over three hours later.  Once they’d touched down, Clark called his parents to explain the situation.  Martha opened the door before they’d even made it to the porch and guided the men inside. 

            “Why don’t you take him upstairs and clean him up?  Your old clothes should fit him.”  Clark nodded, ignoring Bruce’s protests and guiding him upstairs.  He nudged him toward the shower, helping him with his buttons when his hands shook.  Bruce worked his way carefully through the motions, stepping into the shower and rubbing the grime off of his skin.  He calmly washed his hair and accepted a razor from Clark when he was ready to shave.  Clark stood right outside the shower, guarding him against any mishaps.  When none came, he handed Bruce a towel, shutting off the water.  He gave Bruce a dark pair of his old blue jeans, some underwear, a soft white undershirt, and a flannel shirt.  Somewhere in the process of dressing him, he started to look more alive, if still looking nothing like himself. 

            Downstairs, he mindlessly ate some of the food Martha Kent served him as she spoke politely about the weather and the town.  He nodded for the most part when appropriate and didn’t resist when Clark guided him up to bed.  Another mattress was laid on the floor so that Clark could stay nearby.  The sublime feeling of Bruce Wayne laying in his childhood bed seemed to drive everything that had happened home.  Bruce was hurt in a way he’d never seen him.  Maybe this was how Alfred saw him after his parents died?  He felt sick at the thought of Alfred.  There’s no way that anyone would ever fill the void that losing Alfred would leave.  It was no wonder that Bruce had hidden inside himself. 


	5. Chapter 5

                Warm sunlight trickled through the white sheer curtains that billowed in the breeze as winds ripped across the flat lands of Kansas.  The air was thick and nourishing, carrying the lush scent of well-tended farmland.  He awoke to the warm prickle of sunlight against his bare shoulders, sheets wrapped around his legs from kicking them in his sleep.  His body ached but his mind was blissfully numb, listening to the winds changing and rustling the thick grass and the occasional tree outside.  For the first time in a long time, he felt content to be still, maybe so content that he could be okay with never moving from here again.  An arm guided the pillow tighter against his face as his legs stretched out.  He extended with a contented sigh before dozing off again. 

                In his mind he was running, either toward or away from something or someone he couldn’t tell, but the urgency was clear.  The ground was thick and sticky like molasses and he struggled to keep his eyes open.  Everything around him blurred and faded as he tried to focus, and the dark fluid dragged him further and further down.  He was suffocating, limbs heavy and useless as he tried to pull himself up toward the surface.  He could feel it seeping under his skin, running through his veins like something viscous and deadly.  He breathed it into his nose and lungs, clogging them, suffocating in the dense tar.  He could hear a voice calling to him as his body shook violently, trying to clear it from his chest, but he couldn’t speak.  _Bruce…  Bruce!_

                Firm hands were on his shoulders, pressing him into the bed as his body shook.  His skin was cold and slick, ripping under the surface with a cold sweat.  His chest ached and he inhaled deeply, eyes flying open as warm air filled his lungs.  He coughed as his sudden inhalation forced saliva down his windpipe.  Between his coughs he tried to speak.  “Clark?”  He studied his surroundings anxiously, taking in the vintage, vertical stripped wallpaper, the dark wood furniture, and the childish décor of comic books and model airplanes.  Outside he could see that it was a little darker than before.  Someone had shut the window while he slept.

                “It’s okay, Bruce.  It was just a dream,” his hands hovered Bruce’s shoulders where he sat on the edge of the bed.  Bruce could feel the warmth of Clark’s hands like static between their skin and shifted uncomfortably. 

                “Of course,” he leaned down, running his fingers through his hair as he tried to clear his mind.  “Of course it was a dream.”  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been awake, lying half asleep in the warm breeze.  Subconsciously trying to gain some traction, he combed down a cowlick with his fingers.   “What time is it?” he asked, not that it really mattered.  Clark looked away subtly, rubbing a scratch on his nose with the edge of his hand. 

                “I was going to get you up earlier, but Ma though it’d be better to let you sleep.  It’s already four.”  The sun was hedging its way back to the horizon.  _Still early,_ Bruce thought.  “Don’t give me that look,” Clark chided.  “If nothing else you need to get something in your stomach.”  Bruce scowled slightly, affronted by the gentle lilt in his voice. 

                “I’ll get something later,” he dismissed, standing and straightening his sleep clothes.  Clark only shrugged, turning away to dig through his drawers for something else for Bruce to wear. 

                “Ma’s making dinner right now.  She’s even making a fresh load of biscuits, though you slept through the last one.”  He held a small bundle of clothes out behind him for Bruce to take, pressing everything back down and shutting the drawer.  “At least come down stairs.  You might change your mind.”  It was dazzling.  It was the honest, genuine smile that always managed to rub Bruce the wrong way with the unnatural goodwill behind it.  There was the same tiredness in his eyes from when he’d spent the night saving refugees from a natural disaster, but it wasn’t an act of pity or social expectation.  Clark truly and honestly cared about people, even an emotional quagmire like Bruce. 

                “We’ll see,” he grunted, turning away to unbutton the old fashion nightshirt and slip it off his shoulders. 

                


	6. Chapter 6

                By the time they made it down to the kitchen, Martha had already set three places at the table.  Bruce could hardly protest as Clark ushered him firmly into a chair.  The scent or warm, buttery dough filled the air and even though he didn’t feel hungry, he could feel his dry mouth watering.  After taking a seat next to him and shooting a tentative smile toward his mother, Clark heaped three large country-style biscuits onto the plate in from of him.  They flaked slightly between his fingers and Bruce studied the warm steam seeping from between the doughy layers where the crust had been breached.  Mechanically, driven more by instinct and curiosity than will, he pulled the top layer off, watching even more steam rising in the beams of sunlight from a kitchen window.  Feeling eyes on him, he somewhat sheepishly bit into the piece.

                Crunchy, buttery warmth filled his mouth sweetened with honey tempered by a more bitter cream.  He could hear Clark exhale quietly beside him before dipping some mixed vegetables out of the large bowl sitting in the middle of the worn table.  Clark looked at him pointedly, glancing between the serving bowls and Bruce, nodding to ask if he’d care for any.  With a single shake he refused, turning his attention back to his bread. 

                There was something bittersweet about sitting here with Clark’s family eating a home-cooked meal and it made him miss Alfred.  He wished that Alfred would get better soon.  He’d skip patrol and eat with him sometime.  Alfred was such a wonderful cook, and Bruce was surprised by the wave of guilt that came from thinking about meals they could have shared.  He heard a soft choking sound in the back of his throat and sat stunned as Clark and Mrs. Kent watched him remorsefully.  He tried to swallow, but his chest was tight, pushing what little he’d eaten back up.  He swallowed air bittered by the bile in his throat, a whimper escaping his lips as he opened his mouth to breathe.  His blood ran cold and he could feel his vision spinning. 

                Chairs grated across the hardwood floor and Clark was instantly holding his shoulders to support him in case he’d fall.  He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes and putting up a hand to show that he was alright. 

                “You okay?” Clark asked, hands not moving an inch from his shoulders. 

                “I’m… fine,” Bruce’s voice wavered with confusion, sending Mrs. Kent what was supposed to be a reassuring glance.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I must be coming down with something.”  His throat grew tight again as he tried to speak and he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to gain control. 

                “Do you want to lie down?”  Martha asked, reaching across the table to pet his forearm. 

                “That might be for the best.”  His body felt heavy and he wanted to lie on the floor until the spinning and nausea stopped.  Instead, Clark guided him back upstairs, offering him comfortable pants to sleep in.  He staggered slightly, pulling of his jeans before crawling under the covers in Clark’s flannel work shirt and boxers.

                He looked so fragile like this and Clark felt something protective stirring inside him.  It was the feeling he always had when he saw Batman at a disadvantage in a fight, a mere man holding his own against the new world gods.  The feeling was generally unwelcome, choked down so that he could perform his role properly without stepping on the Dark Knight’s toes.  But Bruce hadn’t been the Dark Knight in almost a month now, and the long frame curling around a pillow in his bed might actually need his protection. 

                He could feel his face flush at the implications and he excused himself, heading outside for some manual labor to clear his head. 


	7. Chapter 7

                The following morning was cooler, air thick and heavy with moisture as a cold front moved in from the North.  This was, however, of little consequence to Bruce who muttered slightly in his sleep as Clark rustled around before heading downstairs in the early morning.  He pulled the blankets up, tight around his neck, and succumbed back into sleep.  Hours later, once the room had heated from the sunlight beaming in as the cold was held at bay by several panes of glass, Clark returned, clearing his throat upon entering the room to announce his presence.  Bruce’s brow furrowed as he barely registered the noise. 

                Vaguely aware of the large figure staring down at him, Bruce turned over, confirming his suspicions before considering leaving the warm cocoon.  He peeked up at the imposing statue, waiting for some explanation for his interruption, yet none was given.  Reluctantly, he sat up, sheets falling off his shoulders and resting in his lap. 

                “What is it, Clark?” he asked, voice softened by dreamless sleep. 

                “You need to get up.”  Clark pulled out a new shirt and underwear and stacked it on top of the jeans from last night that he had at some point during

                Bruce’s extensive sleep folded and put on top of a dresser.  He thrust the bundle toward Bruce, not offering so much as insisting that it was received.  Bruce glared at him slightly, feeling his usual pride fighting against being told what to do, even nonverbally.  Met by Clark’s nonplussed expression he choked the feeling down, grabbing the bundle and heading toward the shower.  Clark followed him, unsurprised when the door was all but slammed in his face. 

                “Tell me if you need anything.  Ma’s got breakfast almost ready downstairs when you’re ready for it.  I’m going to go help her, but call if you need me.”  _No matter where I am, I’ll hear it._ The promise was clear. 

                Bruce pulled the vintage chrome knob sticking out over the faucet as Clark’s footsteps descended down the stairs, more for Bruce’s sake than anything else, as there was no reason Clark would need to step down on the stairs if not for common practice.  As he tested the water with his fingertips, he felt a familiar twinge of irritation at the gesture, softened by a reluctant appreciation.  He felt fairly certain that he could sense Clark’s absence from years of practice, but he was grateful for Clark’s consideration, even if he felt it a little undue.  He could relax for the first time in a while, relishing in privacy for a moment where in the last day and a half he had none.  There was an unfamiliar anxiety in his gut at the absence of Clark’s watchful eye, and he admonished himself silently for the feeling.

                Content with the scalding water on his fingertips, he pressed the shower diverter.  The pipes hesitated for a moment, reluctant to change, but soon hot water was pouring out overhead.  He stepped inside, grabbing the soap and working over his skin dutifully.  The process was familiar and he relaxed into it, opening a bottle of shampoo and working it through his knotted black hair.  With the slick substance it was easy to comb away the snags with his fingertips as he lathered the mix against his scalp.  The motion was pedestrian, and if not for the cheap smell of the generic shampoo, he might close his eyes and imagine him back in the mansion with Alfred.  He hurried through the shower, finishing his mission before taking a moment to appreciate the feel. 

                Little sparkling beads of water beat against his skin merging into puddles at his feet like rain.  He squinted through the steam, focusing on a single spot to settle the wave of vertigo as the tightness between the wall and curtain twisted in his mind’s eye as though reality itself had wobbled.  Beautiful peals of burning heat left redness in his shoulders and he sunk to the floor.  The air was cooler here.  He settled onto his knees waiting for the discomfort to pass.  Impatiently, he ran his hands through his wet hair, and as they passed back into his vision he could have sworn he saw something that couldn’t be there. 

                He stared down at them, crimson red as endless blood rolled over them, swirling in the tiny puddles of water around his knees.  It was an impossibility he knew, but he could feel it running between his fingers, corrupting him.  It was a like curse, an endless stream of death and agony that would always follow him like a sinister shadow.  His body heaved as his empty stomach considered emptying itself further on the shower floor.  None of this was real. 

                He was trying to remember something locked away, but the curse, the blood… this wasn’t it.  The water on his shoulders was warm, scalding even, not cold.  He slammed the knob down with the palm of his hand, breathing shuddering breaths as he fought to keep his stomach in place.  He raised himself on legs shaky as a newborn fawn, shaking feverishly.  The searing rain was gone replaced by a steady drip.  A wet rhythm as a single drop grew fat on the rim of the showerhead before falling off like an overgrown tick.  It met the small pool of water below with a quiet blip.  Blip.  Blip.  Blip.  The heat made Bruce’s ears ring.  The sounds were irritating, like gnats flying about his face, riding the current of air away as he tried to swat at them. 

                He grabbed a towel off the wall, scrubbing the water off of his face and out of his hair.  He pulled his clothes on quickly, anxious to be downstairs, away from whatever his mind was fighting.  Clark met him before he’d made it halfway down the stairs, gripping an arm wordlessly.  He guided him the rest of the way downstairs, not letting go until they were in the kitchen under Martha Kent’s watchful eyes.  Another home cooked meal sat on the dining room table, again with three plates.  Without prompting, Bruce sat dutifully where he’d sat the day before, grateful for a little normalcy as Clark slid wordlessly beside him. 


	9. Chapter 9

     A short week had passed and sometime during it Bruce had found himself wrangled into helping with the farm. Martha had insisted that Clark do all the heavy lifting so Bruce found himself sitting on the rotting slats of an old wood rail fence all day. He appreciated the breeze from time to time as he watched the muscles of Clark’s back as he bailed hay.

     Early on Monday morning, Clark had shaken him from sleep and dragged him down to the old red barn which sat several hundred feet from the house. Standing outside, he could smell the warm, grassy smell of animals as Clark excitedly slid the large door. Inside, Clark pulled him toward the back of the barn where he could hear a tiny, unmistakable wail. Nuzzling its mother’s underbelly stood a pearly white baby lamb on wobbly stilt-like legs. His mother seemed disinterested, walking around the pen to pick up all the pieces of hay which remained, but when the baby wailed she’d nudge up beside him. He could feel Clark’s stare like something tangible wrapping around his shoulders like a shawl. When he turned to him, he found that Clark was staring at him with a mix of wonder and a gentle affection.

     Pressed onward by this expression and a gentle pressure of hands against his back, he stepped toward the ewe and lamb. Without sparing him a glance, the mother moved out of his way, turning to study Clark in anticipation of a morning meal. The lamb tottered toward him curiously, bright black eyes studying him over a pale pink nose. Bruce looked back at Clark uncertainly. He was unsure how he was supposed to respond to the animal, but settled for placing the palm of his hand against the wide fluffy forehead. He was surprisingly soft, considering the spongy coarseness of his mother’s coat.

     “Isn’t he amazing? We didn’t think he’d be due for another week, but he’s as healthy as they come.” Clark is beaming, more at him than the baby and he could feel himself shrinking beneath the attention. He’d always known Clark raised animals, but he hadn’t anticipated the joy that emanated from him as he spoke about the newborn. The lamb tottered for a moment before settling down on its knees and Clark laughed, high and gentle like a wind chime.

     “I know it’s probably not something you’d be interested in, but I didn’t want to miss the chance.” Clark was holding open the gate to the pen, offering him a way out. Stepping carefully around the baby, Bruce slipped out of the pen and watched as Clark tossed a medium sized bundle of hay in for the mother. She followed its movement and by the time it had settled at the back of the pen she was waiting for it. Clark closed the door and guided Bruce back outside.

     He was starting to feel silly for having brought Bruce into the barn in the first place. When he’d discovered the tiny lamb, he’d felt irrationally driven to Bruce. He’d wanted to share something meaningful and lively, something to say that even when one life ends another is just beginning. He could feel himself flushing.

     “I… Sorry I got you up. I mean, you can go back to bed. Thanks for humoring me.” Bruce looked uncharacteristically bewildered, hair flowing slightly in the breeze. It hadn’t been cut since before Alfred had passed and the longer pieces were now almost touching his shoulders. The sun was peeking over the horizon with a bright orange which made him squint and Clark’s old flannel shirt was slightly askew on his narrower frame.

     “No…” Bruce continued to look baffled, still probably fighting off whatever dreams he’d been having when Clark had shook him awake. “That’s incredible. He’s… incredible.” They sat on different sections of the old wooden fence out of fear of their combined weight and watched the sunrise in silence as Clark processed what that had meant. An hour had passed and Bruce had barely moved except to shift occasionally when his started to feel uncomfortable.

     “I’m sorry, Clark. I’m sorry to put you to all of this trouble.” Dark brows were drawn together slightly and his face looked ashen. “He’s dead, isn’t he? That’s what I’ve been struggling with…” With that said, he could see Bruce straightening himself. “I didn’t think it would affect me quite this much.” Clark stood and walked closer to him, hands balling and unballing uncertainly at his sides. Cautiously he cupped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder as a gesture of support and he felt a cool hand grasp his own.

     “I’ll be okay,” Bruce promised both of them without loosening his grip on Clark’s.


	11. Chapter 11

      As Martha prepared breakfast later that morning, Bruce was on the landline in the kitchen making arrangements. He’d already spoken with the morgue and arranged the funeral, using preplanned guest lists and floral arrangements. The headstone, which Clark would later learn was more of a marble monument to Alfred on the family’s burial grounds, would be finished by the end of the week. Clark watched, feeling a little helpless now that Bruce was standing on his own again, until his mother corralled him into making the scrambled eggs.

     “Bruce, dear,” Mrs. Kent called gently, peeking her head out from the kitchen. Bruce nodded, listening to someone on the other end of the phone. She stepped toward him, placing a small calloused hand on his shoulder while she guided him to hang up. “You’ve done plenty for today. It’s hardly even eight and you’ve already made more calls than I’d make in a week!” She smiled at him, grey-blue eyes soft in a bed of wrinkles. “Come on now,” she chided, hurrying him into the kitchen.

     As Bruce walked in, Clark was finishing setting the table. Slightly mismatched old silver sat on a worn, country print tablecloth. Clark shot Bruce a look as he walked in. It spoke a complicated language they’d perfected working together the last decade and a half.

     _Are you okay?_

     _Of course I’m okay._

     _Have you called Dick?_

     _I’ll do it later._ Later of course meant when he got damn good and ready.

     Martha ignored the silent conversation, buttering a piece of sourdough toast and setting it in front of Bruce. Bruce nodded gratefully, slowly starting to get used to having things poked at him without ever asking if he cared for it. Alfred would have declared the meal was finished and left it in a predesignated spot which varied based on where in the manor Bruce was currently working. He passingly wondered what his daily meals would look like in the future but dismissed it as irrelevant. Besides the preparations for Alfred’s funeral, Bruce had to update the League database (and in turn, his private databases) about whatever crises he’d missed. He’d also seen a newspaper article about the Penguin breaking out of Arkham which would have serious consequences for Gotham’s gangs.

     “I was thinking, maybe this evening we could—“

     “No.” Bruce declined before he could even finish the invitation and Clark looked a little hurt. “While I appreciate your hospitality…” Bruce plastered a Gotham socialite smile on his face for Martha’s sake, “I’ve already chartered a pilot to take me back to Gotham. I figure I should probably be with my boys right now.” His expression was sugary sweet in a wholesome way and Clark wondered whether his mother was buying it because he certainly wasn’t. He shot Bruce another look which Bruce went out of his way to ignore.

     _Liar._

     “Are you sure that’s really for the best, dear?” Clark was staring a little too hard at Bruce as he took another bite of toast. If it had been just the two of them, they might have fought about it, but his mother always knew the right way to push. Bruce broke the eye contact he was holding with his piece of bread and raised a dark brow.

     “Of course.” With anyone else, the conversation would have ended there. Few people in Bruce’s life would continue to question him once he’d determined the matter concluded.

     “It’s a big house for a man to be all alone in…” _She knew,_ Clark smirked slightly.

     “You really shouldn’t be alone right now. I’d feel better if you’d called Dick or Tim to help you.” Clark added. Bruce sighed and shrugged, purely as a dramatic gesture as Clark knew that Bruce had all but stripped himself of the need to emote, even in desperate circumstances.

     “I’d hate to make this any more difficult on them,” he lied smoothly. He was avoiding them. That much was obvious. Martha nodded appreciatively, patting his hand lightly.

     “I was thinking another adult. Clark has the rest of this next week off work. He’s good company and he’d be able to help around the house.” A clump of scrambled eggs caught in Clark’s throat and he choked, sputtering tiny pieces of egg on the table cloth. Without hesitating, Martha handed him a napkin. He saw a tiny twitch at the corner of Bruce’s lip.

     “Ma, I don’t think…”

     “It’s really quite alright, Mrs. Kent. I couldn’t possibly impose on your family any longer.” Bruce folded his napkin on his plate, excusing himself as the buffeting of a helicopter engine settled in one of their disused corn fields. The sound of it shook the panes of glass in the window frame. “Thank you again. I’ll have to get your biscuit recipe from you the next time I come down.” Bruce kissed Clark’s mother lightly on the cheek before taking his dish and setting it in the kitchen sink.

     Clark wondered at how quickly Bruce could move when intimacy was involved.


End file.
